


Very Complicated Solitaire

by htebazytook



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Humor, Kissing, M/M, Philosophizing, Post Apocalypse, Romance, Slash, good omens exchange
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-12-21
Updated: 2008-12-21
Packaged: 2017-11-07 08:20:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/428893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/htebazytook/pseuds/htebazytook
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>for <a href="http://ghot.livejournal.com/profile"><img/></a><a href="http://ghot.livejournal.com/"><b>ghot</b></a>, and I hope this suffices (that rating just stubbornly refused to get any higher)!  Happy holidays :)</p>
    </blockquote>





	Very Complicated Solitaire

**Author's Note:**

> for [](http://ghot.livejournal.com/profile)[**ghot**](http://ghot.livejournal.com/), and I hope this suffices (that rating just stubbornly refused to get any higher)! Happy holidays :)

**Title:** Very Complicated Solitaire  
 **Rating:** PG-13  
 **gift for:** [](http://ghot.livejournal.com/profile)[**ghot**](http://ghot.livejournal.com/)  
 **gift from:** [](http://htebazytook.livejournal.com/profile)[**htebazytook**](http://htebazytook.livejournal.com/)

 **Author's Notes:** for [](http://ghot.livejournal.com/profile)[**ghot**](http://ghot.livejournal.com/) , and I hope this suffices (that rating just stubbornly refused to get any higher)! Happy holidays :)

  
\-----

 

Aziraphale was watching the clouds.

Transient periwinkle clouds that lilted across a sky made of sun, their undersides lit pink. Directly overhead the sky was purely blue, and it drizzled down the sides of the dome to meet the horizon. The entire picture was slightly whitewashed and continually deepening as the day fell asleep.

He thought it was divine.

Crowley, on the other hand, was offended when people called this kind of sky heavenly. It was distinctly _earthly_ , and he was blessed if he wasn't going to enjoy it.

The demon approached.

"That one looks like a dusty old Bible," he pointed out. "You'd better nab it quick, before it rains poorly edited scripture on people's heads."

Aziraphale didn't cease his heavenward vigil. "It looks like a cloud. Or an exceptionally lovely, albeit traumatized, orchid, if anything. Do be a little more imaginative. Hello, Crowley."

Crowley had been wandering quite aimlessly through St. James'. He knew he could depend on Aziraphale to be lazing by the duck pond if he wasn't at the bookshop (which he hadn't been—Crowley had checked). It didn't surprise Crowley to find him there. They both tended to migrate to the park when they felt uneasy, and they both tended to feel uneasy at the same time. One ran into the other so often that the guarantee of the other's presence seemed to have become confused with what solace could be found in park itself.

"Hi," said Crowley. "On the contrary, seeing a Bible in a cloud that looks, _if_ anything, like a cloud, is _highly_ imaginative. _I've_ got imagination—let's not forget how well the world wide web is catching on," he added smugly.

 

"What brings you here, then?"

Crowley thrust his hands into his very stylish pockets. It was that brilliant, quintessential part of autumn when leaves flamed with colour. A chill breeze was picking up playfully, and he felt somehow justified in wearing his poor excuse for a functional jacket.

"It was a nice day," he defended.

Aziraphale nodded. They stood in companionable silence while the world waved in the wind around them

"I do wonder where the ducks have gone off to."

"Come again?" Crowley registered the empty pond. "No ducks," he said, probably more disconcerted by this than he cared to admit. "Odd." He looked sidelong at Aziraphale. _Don't you try wiling me._

"I'm not having you on, my dear," said the angel. "They simply seem to have disappeared."

"Well . . . maybe the Russian Cultural Attaché's back."

"It's entirely likely." He looked at Crowley expectantly but Crowley was damned if there was some kind of double meaning there.

 _Something's changed_ , thought Crowley.

"So here’s what I want to know, Aziraphale: why do you never invite me into your shop anymore? Hm?"

Aziraphale looked uncomfortable. "It’s not as though you _need_ to be invited in, Crowley, unless you’ve become a vampire recently and are determined to make me into one, in which case I really ought to keep away from you, I think—"

"Oh, no—listen to me, you make _sure_ we don’t go in. You pop out of your shop and whisk me away to the Ritz or here or somewhere. And whenever we get back it's always 'Good evening, Crowley' and a cheerful bell and a hard wooden door to the face. Well, I'll have you know that I dropped by before I wound up here, and—"

"You did?"

"That’s what I said, yes."

". . . Did you go in?"

"Well, no, I mean. You know, you weren't there, so." Crowley would never stoop to admitting he had a sense of propriety in front of Aziraphale. There was something he had been about to say . . .

"It didn’t seem to stop you before."

"Yes, but that was before."

"Yes." Aziraphale looked expectant, didn't say anything else. Crowley shook his head and continued:

"Since when do you collect children’s books?"

"How’s your car?"

"It—huh? Listen, Aziraphale, I think you should know that that was a pretty lame attempt at changing the subject even for you—"

"Have you listened to the new tape I gave you?"

"Uh." Shook his head again. "Yes, actually."

"Any good?"

"No, angel, I find Handel’s more recent albums not to my taste. He's gotten repetitive these past two-hundred odd years."

"Handel, was it?"

"Yes!"

"I see."

The sky was really quite spectacular as the sun slid lower with the day. Crowley hoped the angel would be content to just look at it and forget about real conversation. He began formulating a suitably drab comment about the weather—

"So when would you say was the last time—?"

"Hey, bloody well stop interrogating me for a minute! What has gotten into you?"

"Oh, settle down," Aziraphale said. "I've just been reminiscing."

"Fuck that. Once you start thinking about the past it's hard to stop. And some parts of history really don't bear remembering. _Anyway_ ," he pushed on. "I'm _terribly_ glad August is over. I really do hate it. It's that general consensus of dread in the population, you know? The school year begins, the last throes of summer." Crowley's signature gloom, that was the ticket . . .

"Dread?" It caught Aziraphale's interest at least. He was thinking about it. "And how would you define that?" he asked loftily.

Crowley looked at him over his sunglasses. Very well. "Fear. Specifically, the fear of something inevitable and out of your control. Something ineffable, if you will. Satisfied, Socrates?" he hissed.

Aziraphale bypassed that. "Not a fan of dread, my dear?"

"Not so much, no. Not very demonic, I realize, but I prefer a good bout of mild anxiety. It eats away at people in a much sneakier way. I respect that."

Aziraphale watched him staring across the lake, wondered why Crowley thought he'd ended up here. Because the thing was, Crowley didn't know. He still didn’t know, and Aziraphale couldn't be sure if it was repression or if he in fact _didn't know_. And the angel was in a bit of a bind over whether to tell him or not. It was probably his duty as a friend to say something, but it was _definitely_ his duty as an angel to keep his mouth firmly shut. Aziraphale didn't like the way his obligations to Above always seemed to result in a fair amount of guilt in real life.

Aziraphale was aware that he thought too often of his associate in considering his own actions. They _were_ friends, though—not really by choice, but somehow it _had_ happened. Their perspectives may have conflicted in a number of ways, but ultimately they were both coming from the same place, the same experiences, the same level of sophistication . . .

"You'll know all about Pokemon by now," Crowley said.

Of course, there were also those occasions that Aziraphale turned his eyes heavenward and wondered how he ever got stuck with such an idiot, anyway.

"I should've known," Aziraphale sighed.

"Ah, Japan. I don't even have to try." Crowley looked so proud. "I mean think about it, you find the right mix of addiction and marketing, not to mention the right market for something as inane as Pokemon, you've got it made for the next generation or two of impressionable and, perhaps more importantly, critically bored young people." Crowley used his hands a lot when he got on to something. Long hands that moved with an aggressive brand of grace.

Aziraphale was too familiar, too expectant in these little physical details, and it was odd how they still managed to stand out and made him feel unnecessarily observant and unaccountably nervous.

"Well, it's all very impressive I'm sure, my dear. But it's not really significant enough for me to attend to," Aziraphale said dismissively.

Crowley tried to stop his lip from curling. "Right." We'll see about that.

Aziraphale smiled. "I was hoping I'd run into you, actually."

 

"Oh, really."

"I've been doing some thinking. Did you know that I haven't received a single memorandum from Above in ages?"

Crowley snorted, looked away. "Ages, Aziraphale? Really?"

"And I was curious as to whether you'd heard all that much from Below."

Crowley paused. "Actually they _have_ been leaving me alone. Which has been nice, of course, but more often than not that's just the calm before the storm."

"Before the storm?" Aziraphale egged.

"Well, uh, yeah. Yeah, I mean I like to think I've had a bit of past experience—"

"Do you think He cares?"

Crowley blinked, not that anybody could see it. "Um . . . wait, just to be clear, we are talking about the He I think we're talking about?"

"I believe so, yes."

" _You_ just said . . . asked, actually . . . you, ah, questioned?" In another atmosphere he might've leapt at the opportunity to gloat but the sarcasm was nowhere to be found.

"How exactly do we know we _aren't_ God's dream?" Aziraphale was uncharacteristically wild around the eyes.

"Um, well, you know . . ." Sometimes Crowley just did not prefer to be the voice of reason. "You've met the man—er, Almighty, I suppose—"

"Yes, but who's to say he isn't deceiving us about some things, if not everything?"

Crowley laughed, one part disbelieving and one part intrigued and all nervousness. "Why so philosophical today, Aziraphale? Some poor aspiring customer get on your bad side or something? Hey, if you want my opinion, He's the kind of evil genius who makes the Riddler look unimaginative. Seriously."

"So do you think that excuses our behavior?"

Our? Crowley wondered if the angel was even attempting to go anywhere with this. "You're losing me."

"I think I've sinned. Or am sinning. I don't know." That calm delivery of those words was really rubbing Crowley the wrong way. "Is that even possible? How perfect are any of us, even angels, before we are by definition God? But then again being flawed isn't exactly permissible either."

"I . . . I think we both know angels aren't perfect."

Well, Aziraphale couldn't exactly respond to that, so he nodded and said, "Only God is perfect."

Crowley rubbed at the back of his head, looked out over the water for inspiration. Didn't like this place they'd arrived at. He moved agitatedly when he spoke. "Yeah, but what have _you_ got to worry about? It's _not_ exactly possible for you to do evil, if you remember."

"I just don't want to waste time praying about it, if you see my point."

"Humans are always working very hard to convince Him to slide them Get Out of Jail Free cards under the table. I wouldn't worry."

"It's different with angels, Crowley."

"So? Ring Him up and calmly explain the situation," he said sarcastically.

"But I don't want to bother Him again."

". . . Are you saying you've spoken with Him." Crowley gawked at little.

Aziraphale sighed. "There's a considerable difference between talking 'with' and talking 'to'. I suspect I've only talked _to_ Him."

"If He'll stoop to listening to humans, you'd think He'd put up with the likes of you. _I_ do, and it's not easy, but I'll bet He can manage it."

"Angels _can't_ receive absolution; we're not supposed to need it. I don't really know how to go about it, apart from what I've guided humans toward. Do you know, I don't believe I _have_ ever truly talked with God." He looked suddenly quite wretched.

Crowley couldn't find anything to say. Hints at Aziraphale's discontent always took the demon by surprise. Witnessing it was uncomfortable.

But Crowley was reasonably accomplished in the field of cheering Aziraphale up. "It's not the end of the world you know," he shrugged, going for detachment.

Aziraphale started to say something, visibly bit his lip. Dithered.

"What?" Crowley faced him. " _What_?"

"Um, well." Aziraphale's eyes darted a bit wildly over his face.

Crowley seized his shoulders. "What?"

"It doesn't occur to you that that sort of statement has just a sprinkling of irony about it?"

"No . . ." he said, staring right back, and didn't Aziraphale know he was doomed to loose a staring contest with Crowley, of anyone, for som—?

The demon's mouth opened. His brain seemed to be talking, but had forgotten to remind his vocal chords to do their part. Eventually he collected himself. "Actually . . . you know, I think." He frowned. He couldn't think of anything to do other than stare imploringly at the angel.

Aziraphale placed a hand on his shoulder in turn, keeping them firmly close. "You forgot," he said, not as gently as Crowley had anticipated, which threw him off even more.

" _Forgot_? I. How!"

"I, ah, think that would be Death's fault."

" _Death’s_? Oh, I suppose he was there. And that kid! How in _Hell_ did I forget the kid . . ."

Aziraphale withdrew a bit. "Well, we didn’t actually know _which_ kid it was for quite a long while," he admitted.

Crowley leaned back into him. Less for support and more for punctuation. He was looking down and the angel could see his eyes roving frantically over the trampled grass. "And _what exactly_ "—and he looked up for this with real eyes—"was it that possessed you to keep this from me for the past however many years?" Definitely veering into anger now.

"Oh, I don't know . . ." Truth. "A misguided sense of duty, I suppose. What if there was some reason, some big ineffable reason why I was supposed to remember and you weren't."

"Woah, wait, hold on. Hold on. Since when do you actually incorporate ineffable theory into your own politics? Except when you shove it down my throat, I mean."

A quick, forceful sigh. "Since the world nearly went away. For good. It tends to change your perspective. And I suppose I realized just how unenthusiastic I was about my side's resounding victory over yours, not to mention the entertainment selection Up There, not to _mention_ the thought of loosing—er, you know, my books and everything."

It was strange to argue at this proximity, but still Crowley bullied himself closer. He spoke like a child who obstinately refused to understand: "So, what, like, you didn't think I could handle it?"

If only the demon could've seen himself over eleven years of dread and uncertainty—some _exceptionally_ scary uncertainty. Aziraphale held his breath for a minute before responding. "Not really, no."

"Oh." Crowley laughed.

Aziraphale wished Crowley felt able to talk to him in truth. He couldn't help feeling a little betrayed by these guarded responses. It had been nice living under the impression of being on the same side, even in spite of the circumstances.

After a number of silent moments trapped in what was more or less an embrace Crowley sighed and extracted himself. His sunglasses had been lost somewhere along the way and he looked at him directly for a long time before laughing again.

"Just take me back to yours," Crowley grumbled.

Aziraphale tried not to smile. "That will be fine."

 

 

\-----

 

 

After approximately 30 minutes of approximately the most uneasy silence they'd shared since 1859, Aziraphale felt he didn't have much to lose by saying something.

"What precisely are we doing, my dear?"

Crowley jolted like he'd forgotten the angel was even there. His actively blank stare at the darkening road to London had been worrying. "Oh, uh. We're driving. I think. In a pretty lamentable excuse for a vehicle, I might add." He _was_ aiming for lightness, although the sooty smears over his face made it look like he was fresh out of a warzone.

"I don't know if we ought to—er." Aziraphale realized he had Crowley's undivided attention and luminous eyes on him through that charred exterior. There seemed to him to be something tragic in a friendship so colored by romance. That was a stolen thought, from something or someone of import, he was vaguely certain, and he started to shrug it off but relented. It wasn't so bad to admit to. "I—"

"Yes, Aziraphale." Quietly.

"I actually don't want to go back to London. It might be—"

"It might _not_ be," Crowley translated. "I know."

They shared a tired look. Possibly a defeated one.

Abruptly, Crowley's face changed. Eyes dashed away to the side to make it less real. "This is the thing . . . I . . . It's hard for me to shake off hope, even after all these years. Even after these past few. I mean, don't get me wrong, I can do it and be properly demonic when the occasion calls for it. But. Just. Ugh." He ran a quick hand through his hair and Aziraphale watched dust billow smally around his head. "I can't help having hope."

Aziraphale allowed a pause. "So, do you want to go back and see what—"

"Not exactly."

Crowley looked downright imploring. It made Aziraphale itch. He reached forward to connect his hand to Crowley's arm. "Crowley, you are making little sense."

"That so?" Crowley sounded more jaded than sarcastic for once. "You won't mind it if I continue, then. If I could only make enough sense I'd be God, you know? Aziraphale, I have to ask you this: I have faith that tomorrow is safe, but I know that that doesn’t make sense, so if we're even thinking about this does that mean it's free will or what? Then again He gave us that anyway so how is it even free? Or did He? Or _is_ there really free will? Aziraphale, listen, this is important, I'm real, you're real. Here we are, obviously. Did Adam undo that? He isn't perfect, he has some kind of will, I mean—"

"My dear, you really ought to stop this, you'll hurt yourself—"

"No, listen!" Crowley grabbed at him, animated. "Listen! I have hope but that’s irrational—and God is responsible for all of this, by the way—so that's faulty reason so I don't have free will, so then what exactly _do_ I have? I'm not perfect so I'm not God—"

"Crowley, I confess I don’t see the relevance of regurgitating 17th century philosophy at a time like this—"

"Listen, listen to me. What will it mean if we just wake up tomorrow and none of this ever happened? I'm just, I'm just not actually thinking rationally at all right now so, ah, don't say anything, okay? _Okay_?"

"Well, I—"

"Good." Crowley kissed him.

Aziraphale made a noise but didn't do much else other than kiss back after he got the gist of it. Crowley seemed to approve, graceful hand moving up and down his arm with random, unusually jerky movements. Warm, warmth. Heat. Crowley's. And Crowley's mouth which was quite open against his now and Aziraphale had never thought being dragged to action film after action film would have prepared him for a romantic encounter but there you were. There was something to be said for James Bond's seduction techniques, and although Crowley had ignored them all completely, still Aziraphale got the idea that he was supposed to feel a little breathless about the whole affair (which luckily wasn't much of a challenge for a being that doesn't generally require oxygen), and, and all those crass love scenes—had Crowley been sending some truly pathetically broad hints? He tried to stop his various trains of thought from crashing into messily one another. Focus on the present—Crowley is clearly sending you a message _now_. About desperation and lust and it all had to do with his hands moving in random and unusually jerky movements. It was not a coolly planned course of action, and certainly not one that the kind of person Crowley tried to be would approve of. Aziraphale wasn't sure the kind of demon Crowley tried to be would either.

Aziraphale placed Crowley's head at a better angle, felt arms tighten at his sides, stole the lead of the kiss and started feeling smug when Crowley let loose what could only be described as a whimper and leaned into him and seemed terribly young. But Aziraphale didn't feel in control in the least considering how dizzy being close to Crowley made him. It had happened before, of course—shrugged off missteps, lapses in rational thought. But as Crowley had pointed out, there was an almighty absence of rational thought at the end of the world.

Crowley made another small sound—they seemed very out of character for him, but then again it was hard to say what Crowley was really like deep down—pulled Aziraphale against him as much as was possible, kiss turning light and tantalizing before Crowley's fingers clawed his sleeves impatiently and he changed the mood to demanding once again with his mouth. Heat, warm. Crowley. Slippery dealings of lips and tongue that made the heart race at the oddness and the intimacy and Crowley. Crowley.

"Mmmm. May--maybe you should keep your eyes on the road," Aziraphale scolded breathily.

"Nah." But he flexed a gesture that made the jeep screech to a halt rather dramatically which flung them into an even more entangled position which led to more kissing. The gear shift was getting in the way, and that would not _do_ , Aziraphale was thinking, when Crowley pushed him back and before he knew what was happening Crowley had maneuvered on top of him in the very cramped jeep in a questionably feasible way, but who cared? Crowley pressed against him, traced his face and downward, seeming to like rendering at least one of Aziraphale's arms immobile with that grip, kept one hand firm at the back of his head and kissed him again more slowly. Melty, was all Aziraphale could think. This was a direly melty activity, and they might melt right through the upholstery if they weren't careful. He felt an urgent rushing in his chest that terrified him. It had to do with Crowley's face and voice and especially with Crowley.

"Why haven't we done this before, anyway?" Crowley sounded heated and looked focused—just as lost as he'd been moments before, but focused. Damp and maddening and alcoholic was the space between them while Crowley paused and panted.

Aziraphale recaptured his mouth, still trying to make up for every split second the idea of kissing him had crossed his mind. They sure had added up, culminated into a general psychological undertow toward him. And so Aziraphale pulled Crowley toward _him_ and the feeling of his body so snugly against his own made it all so real, made Crowley actual instead of just a vague symbolic outline. Also kissing him was utterly lovely and worryingly addictive, what with his skin, curve of eyebrow, and familiar nose and familiar hair getting knotty . . .

"I don't know how you can possibly think this will sully me, my dear," Aziraphale was mumbling, and he had to realize it was a crazy attempt at lightening the mood.

Crowley just stared back, felt heavy and dulled and wholly aflame—a condition he had some recent experience with after all—and sure, the idea of corrupting Aziraphale had occurred to him a couple of times before he came to the conclusion that Aziraphale was better at corrupting himself than he would ever be.

Crowley cleared his throat, but it didn't help how shivery he was. "No, no, 'virtue is insufficient temptation' . . ." And anyway this was _Aziraphale_ we were talking about here. That same boring, dusty old angel. This boring, dusty old angel overloading his senses with way too many signals for him to process. Desire featuring prominently. The simple knowledge of what was transpiring was blowing his mind a bit, and for the first time he wondered if too much knowledge could be a bad thing. But then again for a demon, a bad thing was a good thing. Or _some_ thing, anyway.

Aziraphale's mouth, once pronounced as boring as the angel himself, was in fact nothing of the kind, and was definitely a good thing. That was all he needed to know right now. A moan escaped him when his tongue stumbled across the angel's. But still not close enough, never close enough . . .

Crowley dislodged himself, assessed the situation and Aziraphale's current state—tried very doggedly not to think about how much he wanted to cut to the chase. "Right." He disappeared, leaving Aziraphale flushed and bewildered until Crowley dragged him (with a dash of miracle) into the back seat with him, where the angel was promptly tackled and kissed some more.

Aziraphale tried to speak around their mouths but Crowley didn't really want to hear it and was in any case attempting to keep them on the right track. But Aziraphale almost always got his way, so Crowley decided he might as well just give up while he was ahead. "What?"

"Was there ever a back seat in the first place?"

"Uh." Crowley didn't remember. Also he felt Aziraphale's eyes, piercing and supernatural in their own right, glowing at him impatiently. And who was Crowley to complain? Kissing Aziraphale was wonderful, after all. The tension slowed. Crowley let his lips trail along Aziraphale's neck, relished the contented sounds that that coaxed out of him. Sinuous movement of his hands along Aziraphale's arms until they were pinned over his head, and the angel's mouth seeking his was not to be denied—

The kiss took Crowley by surprise: the force behind it, the pitch to Aziraphale's unnecessary breath, the way Crowley's body went limp and he found everything whirling around his brain poured into the touch of mouths. It meant something, that he was thinking so hard it hurt. It meant something. And Aziraphale's arms twining around his neck now while Crowley was being blinded. Not enough, never going to be enough . . .

Crowley wrenched himself away. Seriously magnetic here. "Hang on. Not that it matters anymore, but don't you think this is a bit sinful on both our parts?" He wanted to take it back.

"No! I . . . look . . . think about it this way, ah. Oh, honestly Crowley it doesn't matter right now, anyway—"

"It does. It always does."

"When _did_ you get so ethical?" Aziraphale sighed, pushed himself up a bit. Of course that positioned them even closer and Crowley took a moment to appreciate the effort Aziraphale was making and the flush to his cheeks and his rather wanton expression. He really wanted to kiss him again.

 

\-----

 

Somewhere in the middle of Crowley's intention to behave in public he'd caught Aziraphale by the wrist, spun him around, and kissed him with such gusto that they tripped over one another and ended up mostly upright and sloshingly in the shallows of the lake. Crowley felt the chilled water seep up as far as his knee but somehow the contrast against the feverishness of his body made kissing Aziraphale very real all over again. And Aziraphale had started kissing back without thinking twice which also meant something—

He'd pulled away.

Crowley's eyes opened. "Az—"

"We have an audience."

A familiar sound. He stepped back, turned around slowly and was met with a whole fleet of ducks splashing eagerly toward them.

Crowley sighed. "You wouldn't happen to have any bread on you?"

Aziraphale considered. "Mm. Why don't we just tell them to bugger off?"  



End file.
